Cynthia made her way through the mass crowd of unfamiliar faces, carefully avoiding any direct eye contacts with anyone. She feared her own anxiety would grow if she did.
The small town was very lively. Every corner she could see huge groups huddling close to each other, talking and laughing and smiling. The women showed their jeweleries and dresses off while their children cried for attention. Men were drowned in their own world, each was clearly drunk with excitement and tiredness perhaps obtained from preparing for the festival.
A mellow music slowly drifted across the street. It had drawn many commoners into dancing with each other as it was very intoxicating. The sound of their shoes stepping onto the barren soil added a certain flavour to the already perfect blend of melody, making it even harder to resist.
The streets were decorated with sorts of long feathery fabrics that were pleasent to touch. Above their heads were hung the carved lanterns, each glowed with the orange colour of the sunset. Tufts of grasses lining the sides of the streets were crushed, perhaps by the feet of the dancing crowd.
Unevitably Cynthia's anxiety did grow, as she was not used to being in a place with huge crowds. She took in a deep breath but was interrupted by the mixed smells of different spices wafting from somewhere. She had to cover her nose to avoid chains of sneezing.
Far across the main administration builing of the town located at the end of the street was a huge space, occupied with many stalls. They were selling many souvenirs, ranging from masquerade masks, cheap jewelries, expensive umbrellas, to skins from alleged beastly wolves slaughtered by the town's champions. The owners of the stalls shouted with loud voices, trying garner much attention to sell their merchandices.
Located exactly in the middle of the stalls was a huge, white marble-tiled square. At the center of the square was a very magnificent pool of water, surrounded with grasses with the perfect green hue. Rose petals were scattered on the surface, dyeing the clear water slightly red. A huge fountain of water was built in the middle, a marvelous sight for a country woman who had spent most of her childhood at the farms.
Suddenly a gust of wind came, slapping her hard and blowing the light purple velvet scarf off her neck. Instinctively she made ao attempt to grap it off the air but as the wind lacked mercy, it blew the warming cloth to one end of the square where childrens played.
She feared of its safely, as she had grown quite attached to it. She hurried her pace, determined to snatch the scarf off the ground before it would be stepped upon. It had not dawned to her that the long overflowing skirt of her dress was inhibiting her strides, only realising it when she stepped on it.
She managed to soften her landing but still, the impact brought pain to her. She could taste blood, she must had accidentally bitten her lips. The coppery flavor of the constituent of living twisted her stomach.
A pair of hands grabbed her shoulders and helped her stand. It was sudden, she did not even knew who that was. She was too embarrased to look at the person's face.
The hands were quickly withdrawn. It was almost as if they had touched something that hurt them. The person hastily stepped back, something she interpreted correctly as fear, deeply surprising her. She raised her head, now fully aware that everyone were staring at her.
This continued for a couple of moments. The crowds had winded down, the music died and the people stopped moving. They all stared at the beautiful stranger that had tints of blush on both her cheeks, the stranger whose face had been saved from the dirty floor, the stranger that was unable to return all the starings; instead looking down shyly.
An old man dressed in black formal clothes stepped out. A short, thin figure, he appeared taller because of the top hat. The ebony walking stick he clutched tapped slowly to the rhythm of his steps. He slowly approached the stranger that stood before his people.
"I offer my sincerest apology, my lady," he spoke with a voice that reflected years of collective wisdom, "I had not receive the words that you would come to our humble settlement."
Cynthia was flabbergasted. She couldn't find the right words to reply with. Why had the old man spoke to her in such polite tone? She stared hard at the short figure in front of her.
He bowed slightly, tipping his hat a little. "I am the head of this fine town, Francis Marlowe." He gestured at one of the townspeople behind him. "I believe this belongs to you."
The townspeople, a young woman, came closer. In her hands was the light purple velvet scarf. She held it out for Cynthia.
"Thank you," Cynthia said, trying to smile. "I really appreciate it."
"Now, have you any interest in joining us this evening for this annual festival?" He offered his hand. "If so, I shall be your guide."
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